London, 1941
The city groaned under the weight of war. Sirens cried through the night like a mother mourning her child, and the sky often burned with the red scars of air raids. London was a battlefield of its own—less about bullets, more about courage, grit, and waiting. Waiting for letters. For the silence between bombs. For the war to end.
Eleanor Hastings walked briskly through the rain-slicked streets of Whitechapel, her uniform damp at the hem, the familiar scent of antiseptic clinging to her skin. The night before had been brutal—four surgeries, three deaths, and one miracle. Her hands still trembled, despite the cup of tea she'd clutched with such reverence that morning.
The hospital loomed ahead like a grey ghost, somber and tall. Inside, the hallways buzzed with hurried footsteps and hushed voices. Eleanor didn't pause. She knew the rhythm now—how grief and hope moved side by side, like soldiers in formation.
Ward 7 smelled of iodine and muted despair. That's where she met him.
Private James Whitaker had been found under rubble in Calais, barely breathing, his leg crushed, and a jagged scar now carved across his temple like a permanent reminder of the war's cruelty. He lay in bed 14B, propped up by thin pillows and silence.
She read his chart, noting his age—26—and the unit he'd served with, then moved to change his dressings. His eyes opened just as she touched his arm. Green eyes. Startling, sharp, and tired.
"You're real," he murmured, voice rough like a whetstone. "Not just the morphine, then?"
She smiled softly. "Afraid not. And if I were the morphine, I wouldn't be telling you to stop trying to sit up."
"Bossy hallucinations," he whispered, but there was a flicker of a smile.
"That's Nurse Bossy to you," she quipped, taping the gauze firmly. "Welcome back, Private Whitaker."
---
James recovered slowly. His leg would never be the same, the doctors said, but he might walk again—with luck and stubbornness. Eleanor saw both in him. He refused to complain, though pain often sharpened his jaw and sweat gathered on his brow. What he lacked in words, he made up for in stubborn silence, staring out the window like he was memorizing the shape of the sky.
Eleanor began to linger.
She learned he loved cricket, had a sister in Kent, and once broke his arm climbing a tree to impress a girl. He never spoke of the battlefield unless his sleep betrayed him—screams and French murmurs escaping through clenched teeth in the dark. She would sit beside him until the nightmares passed.
"You don't have to keep doing this," he said one night, his voice low but steady. "I'm just another soldier in a bed."
Eleanor didn't flinch. "You're not. And even if you were... every soldier deserves someone to sit with them when they scream."
He looked at her then, really looked. "You're not like the others."
She gave a soft laugh. "I've heard that before."
"I mean it." He studied her. "You stay soft. Even here. Even now."
"I have to," she said, "or the war wins more than it should."
That night, he wrote a letter for her to post. She noticed his hands shook slightly as he signed it.
"To your sister?" she asked.
He hesitated. "To no one, really. Just wanted to pretend someone would read it."
Without asking, she folded a crane from the scrap paper and left it on his tray. "Someone always does."
---
Weeks passed like whispered confessions. The city still shuddered with each bombing, but inside Ward 7, there was a rhythm to their lives—morning dressings, afternoon chess (he was terrible at it), and stolen laughter over weak tea. Love had crept in softly, respectfully, like it knew it had to be careful not to break what war had already cracked.
James grew stronger. He walked ten steps unaided one morning, and Eleanor clapped her hands like a schoolgirl. He grinned, flushed, and tried not to wince.
"Next you'll have me running laps," he teased.
"Don't tempt me. I have a stopwatch."
They sat together on a wooden bench near the hospital gardens that evening, under a moon stubborn enough to shine despite blackout curtains.
"Eleanor," he said, his tone a shade more serious. "If the war ends… what will you do?"
She blinked, caught off guard by the softness of the question. "I used to dream of Paris. Painting. Maybe running an apothecary in the countryside. Now…" She looked out over the dark hedges. "Now I just want peace."
James nodded. "I used to dream of building things. Houses, maybe. Not tearing things down."
They were quiet for a while, listening to the distant rumble of planes.
"I'm afraid of forgetting how to feel normal," she whispered. "After this. After all of it."
He reached for her hand. Warm. Solid.
"You won't," he said. "I'll remind you."
---
It was a grey morning when the notice came. Orders. James was to return to active duty within a fortnight. His leg had healed enough, they said. There was a shortage of able men. He was needed.
Eleanor found him sitting on the edge of his bed, uniform folded beside him like a ghost of the future.
"So," he said, forcing a smile. "Turns out they still think I'm good for something."
She didn't smile back.
"You're still recovering," she said.
He shrugged. "They'll send me to a field post. Maybe logistics. Nothing too risky."
They both knew that was a lie.
"You could fight it. Ask for reassessment," she offered, but her voice was thin, almost pleading.
"And be sent anyway, weeks later? No. I won't run from this, Eleanor."
"Why?" Her voice cracked. "Why is dying on that field more important than living here?"
"Because my friends are still there. Because my sister writes to say our home is just a shell now. Because if I don't go… I'll never forgive myself."
She sat beside him, her throat burning. "And me?"
He looked at her then, truly. With the weight of a man who had known goodbye too many times.
"You're the only thing I've wanted since I woke up in that bed," he whispered. "But I need to go. I need to do this right."
Tears stung her eyes, but she didn't let them fall.
"When do you leave?"
"Ten days."
She nodded once, then reached for his hand, lacing her fingers with his. "Then let's live ten lifetimes in ten days."
---
They became greedy with time.
In those ten days, Eleanor and James created a world that existed outside the war, a fragile bubble sealed with kisses, silent walks, and the scent of wet cobblestone streets. He took her to the National Gallery, mostly rubble now, but a few rooms remained open, shadowed by sandbags and watchful curators.
They stood in front of a Monet.
"It looks like nothing, until you step back," he said, studying the blurred swirls. "And then it's… everything."
"Like this week," she murmured.
They danced one night in the dark, in the hospital's storage room, a gramophone borrowed and spinning scratched jazz records. Eleanor's head rested on his chest. She could feel the rhythm of his heart—firm, steady, trying to memorize hers.
On their final evening, he took her to a rooftop they'd discovered weeks ago. The city lights were muted by blackout curtains, but the stars—those remained.
"Promise me something," he said, holding her hand as if it anchored him.
"Anything."
"If I don't come back… you'll live."
"James—"
"Promise me. Live. Laugh. Paint. Travel. Find peace. Don't let this war take both of us."
She nodded, biting back the rising sob. "Only if you promise me the same."
He leaned forward, pressing his lips to hers—gentle, aching, and filled with things words could never carry.
"I love you," he whispered. "That's the only truth I've ever been sure of."
---
James left in the early hours of the morning, uniformed and quiet, a silhouette against the London fog. Eleanor stood at the train platform, clutching a scarf he had given her—his scent still clinging to the wool. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then her lips, and disappeared into the crowded car.
She watched until the train vanished.
The days that followed were long and cruel. The hospital work grew heavier—more boys with limbs missing, more names whispered with trembling voices. Eleanor threw herself into the chaos, but her heart remained on some faraway field with a man who had promised to come back.
He wrote.
Not often, but enough. Each letter was a lifeline.
> "Still breathing. It's cold here, but the lads keep spirits up. Your scarf smells like soap and home. I keep it under my tunic."
> "Saw a boy cry for his mother last night. Reminded me of the boy I once was. You make me want to grow up for real."
> "I dreamt of the Monet. You, in front of it. All light. I miss you, Eleanor."
Then… nothing.
No letters. No rumors. No confirmation.
Days turned to weeks. Eleanor checked every soldier manifest. Every wounded list. Every telegram.
Until one day, Matron called her aside. A yellow envelope sat on her desk. Her hands trembled as she opened it.
> We regret to inform you that Private James Whitaker has been reported missing in action near Caen. Efforts to recover the body have been unsuccessful. He is presumed dead.
Eleanor didn't cry. Not immediately. She folded the letter, placed it beside the paper crane he once wrote on, and walked back into the ward, her spine a steel rod of silence.
But that night, she finally broke.
She wept in the garden. Not loud. Not with screams. Just with the steady shatter of someone who had dared to love during a war.
---
Winter came with bone-white skies and the kind of chill that sunk into Eleanor's ribs. She moved through her days as if underwater—efficient, calm, unreadable. Her world had narrowed into straight lines: hospital corridors, tea cups gone cold, letters she no longer hoped for.
Then, on a frostbitten March morning, a voice called her name.
"Miss Hastings?"
She turned, expecting a doctor or perhaps one of the orderlies. Instead, she saw a man in a long coat, eyes shadowed beneath the brim of his military cap.
"I'm looking for a Nurse Eleanor Hastings."
"That's me," she replied, wary.
The man stepped closer and handed her a sealed envelope. "You're listed as next of kin. He was found last week—French farmhouse near Caen. Wounded. Delirious. He gave your name."
The world fell away.
Eleanor tore the envelope open. Inside was a note, shaky, ink-smudged:
> "They say I kept asking for you. I don't remember it. But I believe them. I think my heart knew. I'm coming home." — James
---
Two weeks later, he arrived at the station on crutches, his face thinner, his eyes still impossibly green. He looked like a ghost and a prayer answered all at once.
She ran to him.
Neither spoke at first. They simply stood there, wrapped around each other like the only two living souls in a city still trying to breathe.
"You kept your promise," she whispered against his shoulder.
He pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes. "You kept me alive."
---
The war ended months later. It didn't end with a bang for Eleanor and James, but with quiet headlines and weeping strangers in the street. The city erupted in celebrations, but they stayed home, two souls who had already survived their own personal battlefield.
They moved into a small flat overlooking the Thames—peeling paint, slanted floors, and a view that made Eleanor believe in beginnings again.
James walked with a cane, but he walked. He built shelves with uneven nails and filled them with books. She painted again—first hesitant strokes, then with color that screamed of life. They made meals out of ration scraps and kissed over cold tea. Their love was no longer desperate but deliberate—no longer stolen, but earned.
On a Sunday afternoon, Eleanor found the old paper crane folded beside James's letters, tucked between pages of a worn poetry book.
"You kept it," she said, surprised.
He smiled, running his fingers over the fragile wings. "It reminded me that someone believed I'd come home. Even when I didn't."
Years passed. London healed. So did they.
And sometimes, in the quiet moments, when the world outside felt too heavy or too fast, Eleanor would sit beside James in their armchair, trace the scar on his shoulder, and whisper:
"We lived, after all."
He would always answer, "Yes. And we loved."
---
"In the end, it's love that conquers all, In the name of love."